


rage, woman (hell hath no fury like you)

by quilledreleaf



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Niki | Nihachu, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lowercase, Niki | Nihachu Needs a Hug, Niki | Nihachu-centric, POV Second Person, Traitor Niki | Nihachu, Villain Niki | Nihachu, minor niki/puffy, most characters mostly mentioned, no beta we die like wilbur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29565582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quilledreleaf/pseuds/quilledreleaf
Summary: “ you fight tyrants and traitors, you fight allies and mercenaries. you fight for revenge, for peace, for safety.”Niki’s journey through a world that doesn’t care what she has to say.(aka let Niki go feral, but also get her some therapy)
Relationships: Cara | CaptainPuffy & Niki | Nihachu, Jack Manifold & Niki | Nihachu, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Niki | Nihachu & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	rage, woman (hell hath no fury like you)

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you all enjoy this despite any mistakes and me ignoring canon for the sake of narrative (but also mainly because i’m too lazy to go back and check vods or videos)
> 
> JUST AN FYI  
> ———————————  
> i’m not condoning any of Niki’s actions, this is trying to be more of a complex look at her character and experiences. i’m going for an inner monologue kind of thing, so that’s why it might seem like sympathy. don’t take out your anger on others!! especially if they’re kids!
> 
> it’s also an excuse for me to write about female rage because it’s *chefs kiss*

you are so kind to them that they call you an angel. they call you a saint. maybe that was true then, but now you are an angel in the way that satan is one; fallen, with the remains of your halo shattered like delicate glass surrounding your feet. the pieces are sharp, and you cut your feet as you trudge ever forward.

when you were first brought here, you helped to build up a fledgling nation with your own two hands. you helped to raise a flag that flew proudly over a hard-won piece of land. and for a short while, it was beautiful. but the nation fell, as all nations do. you saw the signs and said nothing, watching as the ground tore itself apart, and a melody ceases as the strings of the guitar were cut, leaving this land’s song unfinished. (the fearless leader disappears. he doesn’t even bother to say goodbye.)

you leave. even though they ask you to stay, your reply is that you can’t keep trying to repair an instrument whose strings slice open your palms. it was easier when you knew they were out there, planning some grand return. it was easier when there was a cause to rally around, people to trust, and a place to go should everything come crumbling down. everything did end up crumbling down, just not in the way you expected. now you have to carve a new spot for yourself out of stone. it is not easy.

you’re on a date when your path collides with theirs again. a calm evening with a kind face is bookend by the appearance of large, obsidian walls. (so much like the ones constructed with love and protection. the ones you helped to create.) you know this is the off-tune melody coming from a hastily restored symphony. you think bitterly about how everyone has to grow up and face consequences for their actions at some point. 

there is fighting. you know fighting. how could you not? it’s been written into your soul with blood, both yours and someone else’s. the unwritten rules of the world have always been shaped by the sword rather than the pen. even if the pen seems mightier, you know what happens to it in the end. (a sword right through the chest. blood-red ink spilling out and staining the ground.) so you fight. you fight tyrants and traitors, you fight allies and mercenaries. you fight for revenge, for peace, for safety. you battle until you grow weary of it, refusing to so much as lift a finger to help a place that has changed you in all the ways except for the ones that matter. 

a tree stands before you. this tree is as sturdy and enduring as you have been. you are no longer rooted in this place. it’s unfair that this tree is forced to have dug into this cursed ground. with a bitter smile and a muttered phrase, you hold up the match. 

“It was never meant to be” 

it is only later, when wandering the ruins, that you see him. that is when you see red. why weren’t you told? why wasn’t he there? you were hung out to dry, to face the monsters of the world with clenched fists and a face full of agony. he leaves, as fleeting as always, and you turn your righteous anger upon the only other person who could shoulder the blame in his place. (you know he’s just a kid, but then again, so were you.)

your hands shake and your eyes burn. you try to convince yourself it’s the smoke. the lies are only partially successful. the blood in your body roils as if someone has ignited it in the same way as the land laid out in front of you has been. it will be later when you return to salt to the earth, making sure nothing will ever rise from these ashes to tear your mind and hope apart. (the crater will forever lay dormant. plenty of people will make sure of it.)

you are not religious, but at some point you go to sacred land, close your eyes, and pray that no other girl will ever know what it’s like to be forced to their feet before they know how to stand. not in the way your legs shook as you ran from battlefields or held your ground against tyrants with no one brave enough to stand proudly at your back. there’s a saying about learning to walk before trying to run, but someone pushed you onto new, fragile legs and said “go”. (you don’t think you’ve stopped going since).

you are the backbone of nations and the heart of rebellions. your anger culminates in an explosion that misses by just a few seconds, and in those moments, you feel your spine begin to splinter under the weight of the world. (is this how atlas feels? does his arms grow ever tired and weary as his efforts are forgotten or dismissed or thwarted?) somewhere, in the back of your mind, you recognize it is not the world you’re carrying, but the weight of your mistakes and regrets. they are heavier than anything else could ever be. you gulp down those feelings as the anger comes bubbling up from your throat. your partner in crime spits at you, and you fire back. meanwhile, two children explore the ruined landscape just to the left. 

you decide this is your new fight. you never knew how to keep still during peace, and now is no different. it is a silently waged war against a single person. some hidden part of you is dragged back into this cycle of pain, kicking and screaming her protests. it only hardens your resolve, and you vow not to expose this soft underbelly of emotion. it was achilles’ heel that caused his downfall, after all. for all the battle scars you have, you never thought you would end up fighting against yourself.

and time begins to chip as your stone-cold psyche like a well-worn mallet, so you hold firm in your immorality. this plan is the only way to reconcile with the revolutionary, little girl, bakery owner, outcast, and rage-filled monster all screaming inside your mind for justice. 

at least, that’s what you’ve convinced yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> i cant believe the block game is what ultimately got me to sign up for ao3 and actually post
> 
> kudos/comments with feedback are appreciated!


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